


Is that what it's going to take?

by AtmosphericFantasy



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Asphyxiation, Blood, Choking, Depression, F/M, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-12-09 12:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11669367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtmosphericFantasy/pseuds/AtmosphericFantasy
Summary: When it happens, it takes you by surprise. Ivar breaks up with you over the phone, not even bothering to do it in person. He tells you he doesn't want to be in a relationship with you, and that's it. He gives no explanation, no apology, nothing.





	1. Daze

For the past few months, he's been pulling away from you. He doesn't come over to your place as often, he doesn't call as much, doesn't check in when he usually does. It took you a couple weeks to realise what was happening. At first, it seemed as if it was a conflict of schedules. You were both busy with work, family, life in general.

The last time Ivar kissed you was nearly a fortnight ago. It was chaste, only a quick peck of the lips. It only lasted half a second before Ivar pulled himself away and told you he'd call you later. He never did.

He barely looks at you anymore. You're sure he must be interested in someone else, that his initial interest in you has waned. If you're honest with yourself, you aren't really sure how that interest came to be in the first place. You can feel yourself begin to spiral into a depression as you wait for the day it comes.

It's hell, the waiting. Each time you see him, you think it'll happen, that he'll finally break up with you, and when he doesn't, the relief is palpable.

When it happens, it takes you by surprise. Ivar breaks up with you over the phone, not even bothering to do it in person. He tells you he doesn't want to be in a relationship with you, and that's it. He gives no explanation, no apology, nothing.

The first few days are the worst. You stay in bed for most of it, sleeping as much as you, trying to forget it all. A week later he texts you, asking whether you want to come and pick up the stuff you've left at his apartment.

Fuck. . .he really just wants to get rid of you, doesn't he? Purge you out of his life. Remove every fucking trace of you. You throw the phone on your bed and cover your face in your hands. Had you done something? What it something you said? Was it something you could fix? Maybe you could explain, explain that you never meant to-

You start frantically shaking your head. There's nothing you can do. He'd made his choice. You have to accept it. You only want him to be happy.

An hour later you text him back, telling him you'd come pick up your stuff in a couple days.

The next day, you wake up late. . .really late, a few hours past noon. It's a Sunday, you have the day off, and you plan on catching up on as much sleep as possible. You stare at your alarm for a few moments, not caring how late in the day it was, so you close your eyes and snuggle further into your bed.

The next thing you hear is a knock on the door. You stumble out of bed, pulling on some pajama bottoms to cover your legs. You're already wearing a top so you head to the door, wiping your eyes as you open it.

Your mouth falls open. Ivar stands in front of you on his crutches, a backpack on his shoulders. His hair is tied in a loose bun, and his expression isn't how it usually is, there's tension in his face. It was like the beginning, when you first met, when all you saw was anger before you began to know him. It's as if you're a stranger now.

"Did you just wake up?"

"Uhh. . ." You mumble, tucking your hair behind your ear. Your arms hang awkwardly and you don't know what to do with yourself. Should you cross your arms? You don't want to look defensive. What do you say? Should you tell him the truth? What if-

"Brought your stuff."

"Oh." He props one of the crutches against the door frame, removing one of the straps from his shoulders, and then repeats the process with the other. His face twitches in pain.

"Thankyou." You take the backpack and you're surprised at how heavy it is before putting it down on the floor. How much stuff did you leave over at his place? He nods wordlessly, his eyes drifting away from you.

"What about um. . .your stuff? Do you want me to. . ." You gesture to your apartment behind you, trying to ignore how your gut is twisting. This is so horrible. He didn't even wait for you to come over, he wanted to get rid of everything that's yours. He wants this to be over.

His eyes flicker down to your chest and he stares for a few moments. You follow his eyes down at yourself and realise that you're wearing one of his shirts.

"Oh fuck. . .I'm sorry. I'll um. . .go take it off and grab your stuff-"

"Just keep all of it."

"What? No, no, it's no trouble, I'll just-"

"Keep. It." His tone is low and absolute, not offering you an option to respond. You nod, lowering your eyes from him. He doesn't say anything else to you. You watch him heading down the corridor to the elevator and it opens as soon as he presses the button.

You blink tears down your cheeks, trying to hold back a sob.

\- - -

A month passes, and it's Ubbe's birthday. He somehow ropes you into the celebrations, and you find yourself in a bar sitting next to Ivar. His brothers and their friends are chatting, laughing, enjoying each other's companies. You smile and nod when eyes turn to you, keeping your attention on the drink in your hand. It's a useful distraction and Ubbe is happy to keep the drinks coming.

When you first sat down next to Ivar, you could feel him stare at you. You could feel the disapproval roll off of him in waves. It wasn't as if you chose to sit there, Ubbe directed you to it the moment you came in and you didn't even realise Ivar was already there. Ubbe sits on your other side, effectively trapping you in the booth.

After fifteen minutes or so, Ivar stops his staring, much to your relief. You exchange a few civil pleasantries with him, but you mostly sit in silence.

With Ivar no longer staring at you, it's easier to peek a few casual glances at him. He's trying to hide his pain. Your eyebrows furrow in response, but you're distracted by a round of shots that Bjorn has bought for everyone.

It burns your throat as it goes down, and warms your chest.

The alcohol is starting to make being here easier, so you happily accept another shot. You actually begin to enjoy yourself as you focus on the conversation, even joining in a couple times.

You're smiling at something Ubbe says when you glance over at Ivar. His eyes are squeezed shut and he's clenching his jaw. The pain must be really bad tonight. Your hand naturally moves over to his thigh and you start to massage the muscles.

Hvitserk offers to buy a everyone a round and the conversation turns to a possible shot round three. Ubbe suggests tequila, to which Bjorn is already contesting, and so the brothers begin to deliberate the next round. You chuckle softly at them before gasping in pain as something grabs your wrist.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Ivar seethes, eyes bright and full of anger. Your eyes fall down to his thigh and you can't quite understand how you've forgotten that you can't do this anymore, that you're not together, that Ivar doesn't want you. You try to apologise, but the words are stuck in your throat.

After he lets go, you rest both hands in your lap, rubbing circles into your bruised wrist. No one notices the exchange between you. A few minutes pass before you make an excuse about getting some fresh air. As soon as you make it outside, you make your way home in a daze, wondering what the fuck was wrong with you.


	2. Decency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there. Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy this new chapter, more will be coming soon. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated, so thankyou.

You can't see straight. Each time you open your eyes, everything is sliding down. It's nauseating. You lean up against the wall, fumbling for the front door keys in your bag.

Somehow you've made it back to your apartment. It's past three in the morning. A couple of friends. . .well acquaintances really. . .decided to go out and asked if you want to join them. Usually you'd decline, but the prospect of blotting out all the shit in your head with alcohol was an offer too good to refuse.

You finally manage to find your keys, so you swing them about in the air in triumph. They escape your grasp mid-spin and clink when they land on the floor. You pick them up with a sigh, almost losing your footing in the process, and try opening the door. The key doesn't want to work. Is this the right one?

With your impaired vision, you stare at each of the keys, trying to work out which is the right one. You mumble to yourself when you find the correct one and try the door again. It doesn't work. What the fuck? You try for the third time before giving up, slamming your hand on the door and throwing your keys at it.

Sliding your body down the door, you grasp your head with both hands in an attempt to steady yourself. Sitting still helps the nausea. You pull your bag against your chest and bring your knees up, digging for your phone. Who the fuck would you call? Ivar's gone, he doesn't want you-

You let out a groan and let the phone clatter onto the floor before shutting your eyes tight. Everything's spinning. You thought it would work, getting this drunk, but it doesn't, not really. At first, it was easier, the pain blurred into a light tipsy feeling. It was easy to laugh, to dance to some crappy music and make conversation.

Now? There's so much dread. Pure fucking dread and emptiness and you want to sleep it all away, but you can't reach your bed, the stupid fucking door-

You feel yourself fall backwards, hitting your head on the floor before you can stop yourself. You barely register the impact, you're dizzy and everything is somehow spinning faster than before.

Hands grab onto your shoulders and push you back up, so that you're sitting upright again. You hear Ivar asking you if you're okay. Why is he in your apartment? Didn't he give back the key along with all your stuff? You'd hadn't actually checked the backpack, but he seemed adamant to return everything of yours.

"This isn't your apartment. How much have you had to drink?" You snort out a gruff laugh at his question. Enough to come back to the wrong home. Oh god. . .it was home, wasn't it? All the days and nights you spent there, all that time together. Didn't mean anything anymore. It didn't mean anything.

You can feel yourself sobbing as you lean against his hands.

"Two years. Nearly two fucking years? You didn't even. you didn't even. . .explain. I can't fucking- "

"Come on, come inside."

"No, no. I'm going home. My home." You try to scramble to your feet, but you end up falling back against his chest. His arms wrap around your torso and he pulls you backwards into his apartment. He grunts in pain, and you struggle, trying to stop him from hurting himself.

He orders you to stop, so you comply with his demand. Ivar lays you down on the floor and closes the door before your hear him make his way over to you. Your face is wet with tears and snot, you can't help the sobs bubbling up your throat. It's hard to breathe.

Something pries open your fist and it feels like the end of a crutch.

"Grab onto it." You shake your head in refusal and curl onto your side, clenching your fists together. You mumble about leaving and going home.

"I'm not going to ask you again." His voice is low and demanding, and you can't help yourself but submit to him. Fuck you are so pathetic. You'd do anything for him. Did he ever even love you?

He drags you a few feet at a time, moving in front of you before pulling your body along the floor. Ivar stops when you reach the rug by his sofa, you curl up onto it. Your head is lifted up a few moments later as he props a pillow underneath it. He pulls a blanket over you and then you feel him lay next to you, his body pressing up against your back. You immediately turn over and latch onto him, unable to stop your cries from getting louder.

\- - -

You wake up feeling sick and confused. The bed doesn't feel like your bed. Your eyes are heavy when they open, and you find yourself on Ivar's sofa. Oh fuck. . .last night. The memories all surge at once, which only makes the nausea even worse, so you scramble to the bathroom.

How much did you drink last night? You groan at yourself when you start picturing it all. You sit next to the toilet for a while, waiting for the nausea to pass. When you feel slightly recovered, you steady yourself on one of the hand rails before heading out the door.

Where's Ivar? You call out to him and search the rooms, but he's gone. It makes sense. Why would he want to deal with you when you woke up? Last night was enough. What the fuck were you thinking? You must have passed out while you were crying on his shoulder.

You grab your bag and put on your shoes by the front door in preparation to leave. Grabbing onto the door handle, you look back, wondering if this is the last time you'd ever be here.

\- - -

A week has passed since the. . .incident you call it. The turning-up-wasted-at-Ivar's-apartment-and-sobbing-against-him-until-you-passed-out incident. You haven't heard anything from him, which shouldn't surprise you but it does. He's done enough, he let you sleep on his sofa, he didn't turn you away. But that. . .that was just common decency, nothing more. This didn't mean anything.

It is so easy to rekindle the hope of being with him again. You suppose that's why he's kept his distance, to make it clear that it was over. Did he not want to be friends? You had thought that after a while, maybe you could still have a friendship. Does he. . .not even want that? It's difficult to conceive of a life without him, without his friendship.

You think about getting an early night, it's almost ten o'clock. It's storming outside and you've been staring at the rain for the last ten minutes. You don't have the concentration or the energy to do much else. Before you can brush your teeth, someone knocks loudly on your door, so you quickly rush to find out who it is.

You swing it open to find Ivar standing before you. He's not wearing a backpack this time. He stands with his crutches, hair loose and brushing against his shoulders. Ivar got caught the rain, his jeans and his hoodie look pretty soaked, the only thing that's dry is his hair.

Fuck. . .he's so beautiful. You don't understand how it still takes you back. Even now, after everything. The more you began to know him, and love him, the more beautiful he was to you. You're caught up in your thoughts for a few moments until you realise he hasn't said anything at all. He's just staring at you.

There's no tension in his expression this time, his eyes are dark and heavy. Something is apprehensive in the way he positions his shoulders. He then leans one of his crutches up against the wall next to the door. Before you can speak, he rushes forwards and presses a kiss to your lips, one hand reaches the back of your neck, fingers interlacing with your hair. He pulls back slightly, his tongue gently caressing your lips. He gives you a moment to breathe before he kisses you again, deeper this time, his body pressing up against yours.

You shudder when he moans into your mouth and he leans against you even more. When you take the hint to move backwards, he shoves you back gently, breaking the kiss. He grabs the crutch against the wall and comes into your apartment, using it to close the door behind him. Ivar gives you no time to recover or speak and presses you up against the wall after throwing his crutches onto the floor.

He attacks your neck with his mouth and your eyes roll backwards at the sensation. You can't help but moan. He slowly licks up the side of your throat before letting his warm breathe cover your skin. You feel yourself shudder again. He moves back to your lips again and his hands press down on your shoulders, motioning you down to the floor. You slip your arms under his shoulders, baring some of his weight as you both sit.

Ivar lays you down on the floor and gets on top of you. His tongue is pressing against your own when he latches both of his hands onto either side of your face. Breaking the kiss, he pulls back slightly.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry."

Your arms wrap around him and you pull him towards you, feeling the comfort of his weight against your body. You can feel your eyes begin to water. He whispers another apology into your ear before he kisses it, his mouth then slipping down to your neck. You moan at the pleasure, his hands slip underneath your top and grab your breasts.

A few seconds later, he breaks away from your neck and looks into your eyes as he gently twists both nipples at once. Ivar smirks at your whine before pulling up your top and sucking at your nipples. He lets out a growl in response to your moans and it only makes you louder.

He props up his body weight with one hand as he yanks down your pajama bottoms and panties with the other. Ivar doesn't even bother to take them off completely before putting his fingers in between your legs. He moans when he feels how wet you are, and brings his hand up to taste you. His eyes are dark as he licks them slowly, watching every moment of your dazed response.

You almost feel dizzy at the intense surge of arousal, you hadn't felt this in such a long time. He flips you over so that you're on top, knees and hands supporting your body weight. It's easier for him to use both hands this way. He slips two fingers inside of you and you can feel your arms being to shake already. He starts slowly, gradually building speed. His other hand pushes against your hip, encouraging you to follow his rhythm, before moving in between your legs and onto your clit. He rubs in circles and you worry that he might take his time, like how he's done before, teasing you until you beg him, going so slowly that it almost hurts. But this time, he doesn't tease, he only builds up his rhythm faster and faster until you can feel yourself on the edge already.

Your body is shaking, and he responds by going even faster until you're about to orgasm. He gives you permission to come and you obey, shuddering as you cry out in pleasure. Ivar guides you onto the floor, so that you're lying next to him and pulls you against him. His hand caresses your head, fingers tucking hair behind your ears.


	3. Etch

The quiet moment between you and Ivar doesn't seem to last very long before he gestures to his crutches. You pull your pajama bottoms back up, trying to ignore how wet your panties are. When you get up off the floor to your feet, you have to steady your weak legs for a brief second.

After retrieving his crutches and handing them to him, you help him up off the floor, taking some of his weight in the process. He then leads you into the bedroom and sits on your chair. After propping up his crutches against the armrest, he begins to take off his clothes. With his wet hoodie and t-shirt now off, he raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. You've made no move to do the same, you're still pretty dazed and seemingly distracted.

You pull off your pajama bottoms before hanging up his hoodie on the door. Meanwhile Ivar has taken off his jeans and socks, handing the former for you to hang up to dry. He moves onto the bed, leaning the crutches against the nightstand in the same position as always. Ivar sits waiting with only his boxers and leg braces on. You kneel on the floor, and begin to undo his braces with ease. The movements are somehow starting to arouse you again. This was often the beginning of many play sessions with him, nights spend pleasuring each other, hours of bondage and teasing, of his hands controlling your body, of his voice whispering and commanding.

When his hand brushes against your cheek, your own hands start to shake. You can't look up at him, you know you're going to fall, slip into his control, you want to hold onto yourself for a while longer. It's been a long time since he'd had you and you've craved him for so long, you want to have time to truly appreciate this moment. When you finish undoing the braces, you begin to caress his calves in an attempt to prolong this time. 

He tilts up your head towards him so that you're looking up at him. His vulnerable expression confuses you, his eyes are hesitant, lips pressed together. Ivar's head is tilted down slightly so that his loose hair covers most of his cheeks, as if he's trying to hide himself with it. His eyes would normally be dark, he'd have a slight smirk and he'd tilt his head in amusement and curiosity as he watched you. The arousal tempers into something different, from a lurking depth to a more pressing sensation.

You intertwine your hand with his on your face and press kisses onto his palm. As you pull his hand away from your face, you kiss his wrist and work your way up his arm, pulling his body towards you in the process. From his shoulder, you work your way past his collarbone and onto his neck. The kisses are become deeper and slower, your tongue and lips gently caressing him. You feel an ache in between your legs when he moans, and you can't help the smile that spreads across your face in response to his pleasure.

He grabs either side of your head before redirecting your lips to his. Ivar begins slowly at first, and you keep up with his pace, but it quickly becomes frustrating, you need more. When he lets out another moan, you can't help but slip your hands down his chest and over his muscles. Your fingers move underneath his boxers and run through his hair before wrapping around his cock. He lets out a gasp, his kisses immediately become more frantic. Ivar gets even harder with your touch, and you'd almost forgotten what the feeling's like.

Your thumb rubs along the tip, against the wetness from his pre-come. Pulling your hand from his boxers, you break away from the kiss and wipe your thumb against his bottom lip. You then wipe your tongue along it to taste him, and begin to suck his bottom lip, grazing your teeth against it as well. Thankfully the action incites Ivar to pick up his pace and he yanks off your top before ordering you to climb onto the bed. He presses your back against the bed and hovers above you, his hand following the same route as your own.

It runs down your chest, over your stomach and moves underneath your panties, fingers brushing over your hair before reaching in between your legs. His fingers easily slip inside of you and he repeats your own actions. His fingers rub against your mouth before he kisses you and sucks at your lips. He pulls away and wrenches the panties down your legs, throwing them onto the floor. The dark sheen of arousal is in his eyes now, and he stares with predatory intentions.

When he rubs his cock against your clit, you let out a startled groan of pleasure. He plays with you for only a few moments before pushing himself slowly inside of your cunt. Ivar presses his forehead against yours and moans into your mouth. He waits until you nod at him to start moving again, and the pleasure takes your breath away. He begins to pick up the pace and you cling onto his back, legs wrapping around his hips.

The sensations are difficult to describe when he gets faster, staring at you all the while. It feels so intense it's almost painful but you're only registering pleasure. Moans spill from your mouth at his every movement and you can't help the noise. You can feel yourself losing your breath slightly as he fucks you even harder.

He presses his mouth against your ear and growls out a moan, the sound sending a wave of pleasure through your body. His moans get even louder and he's getting close now. You clench onto his hips with your legs even harder.

When he comes, the noises he makes take your breath away and you're almost in awe of it. You want to etch the sounds into your memory. He takes his time pulling out of you, watching you for any signal to slow down. Ivar then lays on his back on the bed, catching his breath and recovering. You curl up beside him after he closes his eyes.

It's not long before he opens them back up and he tells you to get on top of him. You hesitate for a brief second before complying and you straddle his waist.

"Closer," he mutters, finger beckoning you forwards. You move forward on your knees until you straddle his chest and pause, unsure of what he meant.

"Keep going," he whispers playfully, your eyebrows furrow in confusion. When he smirks, you immediately understand his request and begin to blush. His hands grab onto your arse and urges you closer until you're straddling his face. He wastes no time and starts rubbing your clit with his tongue. You brace your hands against the wall to keep yourself steady.

He uses his arms to press down onto your thighs so that's you're unable to pull away. He fucks you with his tongue for a few moments before concentrating on your clit again. You're almost close to coming already and you feel his arms tighten around your legs.

"Please, please, please," you beg him mindlessly, asking for his permission. 

You can't help but come when he sucks hard on your clit. The noise you make is almost a scream and you writhe against him, desperately trying to pull away from his mouth as he continues to lap at your cunt.

When he releases you, your body collapses onto the bed and you lie beside him. You're shaking slightly and you close your eyes, trying to return your breathing to normal. Ivar presses a kiss against your forehead before wrapping his arms around you.


	4. Ease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in tags and additional warnings. This chapter gets pretty heavy so be warned, it's only going to worse from here on out. Hope you enjoy.

When you wake, Ivar's gone. There's no trace of him in your apartment, aside from the dull ache in between your legs. You keep checking your phone for the rest of the day, expecting to hear from him, whether it's a text or a phone call. You receive neither.

Three days have past since that night and he hasn't contacted you once. Were you not getting back together? He apologised to you, more than once. Surely he was apologising about breaking up with you? What else could it be? If it wasn't that then. . .why did he come over? If he didn't want to be with you, why did he. . .why did he fuck you like that?

You can't hold out any longer, so you text him, asking how he was. It takes ten minutes to type it out on your phone as you keep considering your exact words, wondering whether you should mention what happened between you. In the end, you keep it neutral and unobtrusive, hoping that you would get a response.

But you don't.

It's been a week to the day. A whole fucking week, and you haven't heard from him. You feel like you're in limbo waiting to hear from him. Was that night even real? Was the grief so bad that you'd hallucinated it all?

Maybe you should go and see him. Your gut twists with anxiety at the thought. Being rejected and dumped over the phone was hard enough, but to relive it again in person? If he'd really wanted you back in his life, where was he? He'd be talking to you every day, seeing how you were, finding out what you were up to. If he wanted to be with you, he would. Ivar had such strong will, stronger than anyone you'd ever known. When he set his mind on doing something, he would accomplish it. No matter the consequences, no matter the pain.

It's hard to accept at first, so you keep spinning the thought around in your head, over and over until the hope of him coming back to you becomes fleeting. So you drink. You go out of your apartment, to the closest shop, and you buy some cheap shit, cheap strong shit, and you drink. You drink until you pass out. When you wake up early the next morning, you spend two hours attached to the toilet, vomiting on and off, you're so nauseous you can't think of anything else. You think about calling in sick at work, but you can't afford to.

The day is long and you feel worse than you have for a while, yet at the same time you feel good. Your mind is totally occupied by your physical state, about how sick you feel, about recovering from the hangover. It doesn't have the chance to think about Ivar. After you leave work, you make another trip to the store, and you buy even more than last time. You know you should feel bad about it, some form of guilt, some self-preservation at the very least, but you don't fucking care.

There was no reason to care, not when you've found a way to numb the pain. Before, when you'd turned up at his apartment, you obviously hadn't drunk enough. If you had, you would have avoided those feelings of dread. Fuck that was horrible. You almost shudder at the memory of it, of that emptiness you felt, that void, of that realisation that you had no one. No one truly loved you, not really. They loved you out of familial duty, they loved the idea of you.

They didn't really love you at all.

Ivar never did. Whatever he felt was some infatuation. Perhaps what you had presented to him during your initial friendship was what enticed him into a relationship. When he began to know who you really were, the interest had waned, you weren't good enough for him. Why did you ever even think you were?

When you get home, you don't bother eating. You search for your headphones as you plan to listen to some music while you drink. After looking under the bed, you hear a knock on the front door. It's Ivar.

His hair is tied back into a bun, his eyes aren't dark and expectant like before. They are filled with hesitation and vulnerability, like the slightest harsh word would make him flee. You let him in without either of you saying a word and he heads straight for the bedroom. When he fucks you this time, he goes slower than before, he kisses and caresses you, adorns you with pleasure so sweet and gentle it makes you cry when you come. He holds you with such loving care that you forgive him for not contacting you. He's here with you now, that's all that matters. You don't mention it to him, neither does he.

You live only in the physical moment, of touch and pleasure. The words exchanged between you are functional, practical. You fall asleep in his arms, your bodies intertwined.

He's not there when you wake up.

\- - -

A few days later he turns up again, and he fucks you. You're so grateful that he's even here with you, that he's holding you and kissing you. You appreciate every sensation, every fucking second of it. You don't know if he'll be back, you don't know when you'll speak to him again. Forcing yourself to stay awake gives you some extra time to hold onto the moment. Ivar's fast asleep, his back presses against your chest, your head rests against his bare shoulder. The sound of his breathing is comforting.

You'd missed the heat that your bodies created underneath the bed sheets. You'd missed the feeling of your bodies pressed together. You kiss the skin in between his shoulder blades and try to pretend that everything's okay, that Ivar still loves you and that you're together.

But the thought of the next morning makes it impossible. You knew you'd wake up to an empty bed. You knew he wouldn't talk to you. You knew he didn't want to be with you anymore. He'd just come over and fuck you. Tears start falling down your cheeks and you have to muffle the sobs trying to make their way up your throat.

He's gone when you wake up. Later on that day, you start drinking those bottles you'd bought a few days ago. You keep drinking until you vomit, it makes the pain go away.

Ivar turns up again. He makes you come, he fucks you. He does it so slowly, so kindly, it's like he's never going to do it again, like each time is the last. He fucks you like it's his final day on this earth. Ivar has always treated you with respect and care, but this? It's almost like worship the way he treats you.

He turns up again and again. Time after time. Sometimes he sees you one night after the other, then you don't see him for a fortnight. His visits are utterly unpredictable, but he never catches you drinking. You wondered what he would do if he saw you, would he even care?

You wait each night, expecting the familiar knock on your door. You drink on the nights when the waiting is too much to take.

It's hard to understand what you're feeling. You don't know how to process it. You don't even know what's happening, whether this was Ivar's way to sort his head out, or whether this was his way to fuck a warm body without any emotional baggage. You feel in limbo. You can't mourn the loss your relationship when he turns up at your place and makes love to you. It's not just fucking. There's too much emotion, too much kindness. Too much. . .love? You didn't know. You didn't know what was going through his head, he never told you. You could only feel what he gave you.

You miss him.

You realise that one night after Ivar had fallen asleep beside you. You miss him so fucking him. You miss talking to him and you miss him making you laugh. You were friends before you ever got together, that's what your relationship was based on, it wasn't physical, that came after, that didn't really matter.

Fuck, you need him so much, you need his friendship. He'd left such a void in your life, whatever is happening between you now would never be able to fill it. Whatever this is. . .it's eating you from the inside out. You don't feel like a person with him, you feel like a body. The disconnect makes you feel so debased.

When he comes over, he takes the pain away, he makes you forget about all the shit in your head. It only makes it worse when he's not there. You wake up one morning on the bathroom floor after spending the night drinking. There's vomit all over the side of your face and on the floor next to your mouth. The smell makes you heave.

You're a fucking mess. You could have choked to death on your own sick in the middle of the night. Is that how you want to die? Is that how you want your family to know how they found your body?

You can't do this anymore. You can't. You'll end up dead. You know you'll keep drinking, you know it's the only way to stop the pain. He has to stop, he has to stop coming over. You need him to stop. To give you a clean break. You can't heal when he's still inside you. Your head's so fucked up from it all. How can he treat you like this? How can he do this to you? Doesn't he know what it's doing? Does he even care?

When you close your eyes, the memory of his touch is so vivid. His hands are almost imprinting on you, like he's carving through your flesh and marking your skin. It feels wrong. . . yet. . .

The way he does it. . .he does it all with such affection. Such tenderness. How can he not care? He never pushes you to do anything you don't want to, he constantly considers how you're doing, always waiting for you to signal him to continue. He must care in some way.

After cleaning up the mess you'd made in the bathroom, you were resolved. This had to stop. When he turns up again, he heads straight for your bedroom as he always did. You follow him, watching him prop his crutches up against the nightstand after sitting down on the bed. He's takes off his jacket and places it on the chair in front of him. You sit next to him on the bed, your hands curl up in your lap. Before he can take off his shirt, you blurt out the words you'd been practicing for days.

"I can't. . .I can't do this anymore." They come out almost as a whisper, but you know he's heard. He turns his head towards you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You watch as his expression gradually turns to despair.

"You don't. . .want me?" You can feel your gut clench with such strong anxiety you almost gasp at the sensation. His eyes are glassy. Oh god. . .how could he even say that? Of course you want him, you love him so fucking much, didn't he understand that? You just can't. . .you can't keep doing whatever the fuck this is.

"I do, just. . .not like this." You take in a deep breath, trying to keep strong. He turns away from you, his eyes fall to the floor. Your head is spinning, your chest aches, it's getting hard to breathe. You can't stop looking at him. His lips press together, you can see him clenching his jaw.

"Fine," he mutters resentfully, starting to take off the belt around his jeans. He grabs onto your wrists and tightens his belt around them with ease before you can say anything.

"Ivar, what are you-"

He backhands you across the face, it's more shocking than it is painful. Your mouth falls open and your mind is racing in an attempt to work out what just happened. He takes you by the chin, turning you to face him.

"Did I give you permission to talk?" Your head automatically begins to shake in response. His eyes are dark and angry. There's so much rage in them, it's incapacitating. You can feel yourself free falling into sub space. Words die before reaching your lips.

"So you want me to take control, hmm? Bored of all the vanilla shit?" The tone he uses is accusatory, pitted with indignation. His fingers wipe against your cheek where he slapped you before moving below your chin.

"Do you want me to do this instead?" His fingers wrap around your throat, his grip tightening until he has a secure hold on your neck. Within a few moments, there's tingling in your cheeks which is spreading across your face. It's quickly turning into an inordinate sort of pressure that builds with every passing second.

"You've always liked it when I choke you, cut off the oxygen getting to your brain. Is this what you need?" He tightens his grasp around your neck even more. Processing his words is the only thing you can do, the pressure is so intense. It's getting hard to breathe.

"What do I have to do to satisfy you?" You try to take in as much air as you can, but your throat is too restricted.

"Look at me." Somehow you manage to comply with his order. He's trained you so well, your body would obey his every command.

"Do I have to make you pass out?" He whispers. "Is that what it's going to take?"


	5. Anchor

His words are spoken so quietly and with such softness that your body seizes with fear. You can feel your heartbeat pounding against your ears. The pressure is agonising. His eyes are so dark. So angry. So . .resigned. All you want is to breathe. All you want is to obey him and please him.

When your eyes close, he doesn't stop. That was the usual signal you gave him to release you. You squeeze your eyes shut to make sure that he's seen them. He responds by placing another hand around your throat.

"Look at me," he growls, his voice no longer quiet like before. When you manage to comply, his eyes are filled with such putrid rage that your blood runs cold. You've never been scared of Ivar until this moment. Your eyes immediately turn away and your body instinctively surges with panic. You can feel your arms start to flail helplessly against his body.

"I told you to LOOK AT ME!" His expression contorts with unrelenting rage. You can feel yourself disconnecting from your body, your eyes flicker aimlessly in every direction, limbs start to thrash, your vision starts to blur-

-

"-got you. I've got you. Just breathe." You cough and wheeze as you try to suck in the oxygen he'd taken away from you. He holds you firm against him as you try to curl up away from him. With your back leaning against his chest, his arms are tightly wrapped around your waist. Your arms rest uselessly on your body, your wrists still secured with his belt.

"That's it. You're okay. Breathe," he tells you over the noise you're making. He places a hand underneath your chin and pushes it upwards to open your airway. Your body naturally wants to bend over to ease the pressure on your lungs, but his hand prevents you from moving away. It takes you a few minutes to calm down and he hushes you all the while, telling you that it's okay, that he's got you.

You must have. . .blacked out. One moment both his hands were around your throat, the next around your waist. Your body is exhausted, so you lean heavily against him, trying to understand what just happened. You expect the fear to return at any moment, now that you've somewhat recovered, but his calm words are soothing any unease that might come to fruition.

He tells you that he's going to lay you both down onto the bed before doing so. Your feet are still on the floor, your wrists strain against his belt as your elbows hit the bed. He lays quietly beside you, his hand gently caresses your hair.

You wonder when the rage will surge up from your gut, if not the fear. Where was it? Had his own anger repressed yours so much? Are you still in a state of shock? What was wrong with you? Spit out the words, tell him you didn't-

He swings a knee over your body so that he's now positioned over you, he slowly bares his weight down against your hips. He shifts forward slightly, until your tied hands are brushing up in between his legs. When you flinch away, Ivar grabs both of your hands and squeezes them against his hard cock. He moans noisily while you let out a shocked gasp.

He slowly shakes his head at you, biting his lower lip, and then mutters a quiet 'fuck' under his breath. The noises he makes, the feel of his arousal underneath his jeans are already affecting you, even after what he did. He must have. . .misunderstood. He never really meant to hurt you. You never signaled, you never safeworded, maybe if you-

Ivar pulls his hands away from your own and he moves them to the bottom of his shirt, but pauses before taking it off.

"Did I say you could stop?" He whispers with an undertone of harshness, his dark eyes baring down on your own. You shake your head frantically and continue squeezing his cock with both hands. After discarding the shirt and throwing it onto the floor, he unties his hair from its bun, letting it fall loose onto his shoulders. Ivar watches your face intently, seeing every moment of your reaction when he moans again. Can he hear your pulse quickening? Can he hear how your breath catches when you listen to his pleasure?

You can see in his expression that he does know. He knows everything about you, past memories, your deepest desires, secrets which you thought you'd never tell anyone, but he knows. He knows your body, he knows your reactions. You can't ever hide yourself from Ivar, you gave too much of yourself to him.

He unzips his jeans before pulling both your hands underneath his boxers and onto his bare cock. The moan he makes sends a shiver rippling across your body. You watch the muscles of his abdomen flex as he arches his back slightly, his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows. He slowly leans towards you, placing his arms either side of your head to support his weight. Resting his forehead on your own, all you can breathe in is his expelled air. His hair drapes past either side of your face, entrapping you completely. He starts rocking his hips against your hands as you try to find a steady rhythm.

His mouth brushes gently against your lips and you wait patiently for him to kiss you. As if he'd heard the thought pass through your mind, you feel his lips encompass your own before you feel his teeth graze against them. Suddenly he bites down hard on your bottom lip until you can feel the metallic taste of blood on your tongue. You try to pull away but he holds your head steady with both hands and licks your mouth.

A low growl escapes him, before he pulls back away from you, a sadistic, bloody smirk sits proudly on his face.

"Don't stop," he orders you, hand wrapping around your sore neck as a warning. When you comply, he leans further back, and presses his fingers against his mouth. He begins to slowly drag your blood and his saliva down his neck. Ivar's eyes never break away from you in the process. His smile is softer than last time, but somehow it's more terrifying. You gasp in pain as he pinches at your bottom lip and rubs his fingers across the wound. He reaches up to his face, wiping the blood across his cheek. When he reaches for your mouth again, you press your lips together so that he can't repeat the action.

He rolls his eyes at you before he turns his body slightly, his arm pulling back behind him. You scream when he slaps your cunt. It gives him ample opportunity to wipe more blood from your lips and onto his other cheek. He looks wild, hair loose, eyes awash with predatory lust, skin marred with blood and spit.

You are utterly entranced by him as he swipes his tongue across his lips. The movement is performed with such attention, it's as if he's savouring the taste of you. Your chest begins to ache with dread, fear is seizing at your gut, arousal swells in between your legs. Thoughts are fading away, you don't have the capacity for them. It's so easy for him to strip them all away, reduce you to nothing but obedience.

The breath shudders out of you.

He pulls your wrists away from him before moving off you for a few moments as he rids himself of his jeans and boxers. Leaving his leg braces on, he rips your pajamas bottoms and panties off your body. He rubs his hands up your thighs a few times before moving up past your hips to undo the belt tied around your wrists. After rubbing them briefly, he orders you to turn over and you still, realising what's about to happen.

Ivar brings his hand up to your cheek and wipes away a tear that you hadn't even felt. "I haven't even started yet," he remarks with amusement, motioning his finger for you to turn over. You can feel your legs start to shake, but you can't make them move like he wants you to. He wraps the belt around one of his hands, and gently grazes your cunt with it.

"Do you want me to use this on you here?" He asks with anticipation and excitement. When he raises the belt, you let out a strangled squeal before covering yourself with both hands. You manage to shake your head at him. He repeats the motion with his finger, signalling you over onto your front. After submitting to his demand, he lets out a gruff laugh before sighing.

"Maybe next time," he whispers to you in promise.

Ivar leans over you and grabs one of your pillows. He slides a hand underneath your hips before lifting you up with ease and sliding the pillow under your body. You know how strong he is, you've always know that, but now it's never been more apparent. Before it's been exhilarating, exciting. . .and now it is immobilising you. He picks up another pillow and a few moments later you can feel material being wrapped around your wrists. It must have been the pillowcase.

Hands are tied behind your back this time, your face rests on its side on the bed sheets. You feel his hand come down on your arse and you gasp at the sensation. He strikes the other cheek with the same amount of force. Neither register as pain, he's merely warming you up to the belt. He continues to spank you, gradually increasing the strength of each slap. Periodically, he pauses and rubs both cheeks, kneading the flesh in preparation for what's to come.

"Count," he orders before striking you with the belt. The pain almost makes you scream. He's used it in the past, but never like this. It takes seconds for the sting to dissipate into an aggravated ache and heat. You mutter out a reluctant 'one'. The second strike is done on the other cheek and the pain is as bad as the first. 'Two.'

Three and four are performed with an escalated force and you're already reaching breaking point. Your body has overreached its capacity, there is too much input, emotional, physical, psychological, he is surpassing the limits of what you can take. By five and six, you're having difficulty spitting out the numbers, the pain is so consuming, you can barely concentrate on obeying him. The leather belt sears nothing but agony across your flesh. By nine, you falter, so he repeats the strike with heightened fervor. It takes a few moments, but you manage to mutter the 'nine' under your breath. He flays the ten with less strength and you are thankful for it. Ivar gently begins to rub your arse with the belt, giving you much-needed respite. You assume that he's finished, he's given you ten strikes before with the belt, but nothing more, you expect that his hand will be next.

When he gives you eleven, you spit the word out like it's abhorrent for even existing. The pain is almost blinding in its intensity and your hands reach down to cover your arse to prevent him from striking again. He grabs your wrists and wrenches them up your back until your arms hurt. Ivar brings down the belt again and again until you start screaming, your legs begin kicking at his body as you try to manoeuvre away from him. You start hysterically muttering 'please' at him until he yanks out the pillow from underneath your waist.

"Please what?" He growls into your ear. "This is what you want." He presses the pillowcase against your mouth, it's already damp. "Can you feel that? Can you feel how wet you are?" Ivar begins to force the material past your lips and you try to pull your head away, but his hand latches onto your hair and wrenches you forward. He stuffs the pillowcase into your mouth until it hits the back of your throat and you start coughing. The feel of the material in your mouth is horrible, it makes you almost cringe at the sensation.

"Don't-" He strikes you again with the belt. Your cry is muffled by the improvised gag, you desperately try to breathe through your nose. "Fucking-" Another strike. Your voice is becoming hoarse.

"Lie-" Another lash. "TO-" Your scream is strangled. "ME!"

You close your eyes in exhaustion, body slumping onto the mattress. You feel dizzy, you're not getting enough air. He stops. That's all you can register. A few minutes must have passed, you've recovered enough that panic is starting to build again as you anticipate his next lash with the belt.

You don't realise that your body is shaking until his hands wrap around your shoulders. You're too weak to flinch away from his touch. He hushes you and unties your wrists before flipping you over. Ivar pulls the pillowcase from your mouth and you're grateful for the deep breathes he allows you to enjoy. He gently rubs at your wrists, and you don't realise until this moment that you can barely feel your hands.

You can't look at him. You keep your eyes closed, but it doesn't stop the tears spilling from them. When his hands come up to your caress your face, a sob escapes your lips. He pulls you into his arms and the emotion pours out of you. The sobs wreck their way up your throat until it becomes difficult to breathe. You helplessly latch onto him, trying to anchor yourself with him.

He tightens his grip around you, hushing you, telling you that's it's okay.

Telling you that's he's got you.


	6. Afterwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, let me give you guys a hug. Think I shocked a few of you in the last chapter, so apologies for that. Also apologies for the delay. Things haven't been so great lately, but I'm getting with it a bit better now. Thankyou for all the kudos and comments, they are very much appreciated and helps keep my motivation going. Please enjoy.

The time passes between you in near silence, only the sound of your breathing permeates the room. He holds onto you until your sobs have finally stopped, until the frantic grip of your fingers clutching onto him have finally relaxed. Gradually he peels away from you, releasing himself from your embrace. He lays beside you on the bed, your bodies finally detached from each other.

The thoughts inside his head are spiraling, panic is rising in his chest, his heart pounds, he can feel your blood on his skin, he can still feel your neck around his fingers. Ivar gets off the bed and heads to the bathroom, ignoring the crutches. His leg braces aren't enough to stop the seizing pain in his leg muscles. He props himself up against the door frame, feeling his legs start to shake. After forcing himself a few more steps into the bathroom, he supports his weight by holding onto the basin. He tilts his head up to look at his reflection.

You had wanted this? Hadn't you? You never safeworded. . .never signaled to stop. You had told him you wanted him, but not like this, the way he had been with you before, making love to you, being gentle and slow, no power dynamics. When you told him that, something snapped inside of him. Ivar had thought he was pleasing you, that he was satisfying you. To hear that wasn't enough had slid out the solid ground he had built beneath himself. If you didn't want him to be kind then he wouldn't be. He would be the absolute opposite of kind, he would be exactly what you asked him to be.

He would take control, take things back to the way they were a long time ago. He would dominate you as he once did, he would hurt you and play with you, just as you wanted, just as you had fucking asked.

But the way you shook afterwards. . .

He had been so intoxicated by his anger, so blinded by it, that he hadn't realised what he'd done. Your blood is still on his face and neck, so he washes it away with one hand, his other barely managing to keep him upright. It's only now that he understands the magnitude of his violation. He can almost feel the leather belt in his hand, feel the way it impacted your flesh, over and over. Hadn't you fucking wanted this?

After all this time, all the pain he had caused after ending things with you, he had failed. All those months it had taken to finally end things in an attempt to protect you from himself, and the months after where he was unable to leave you completely, choosing to only pleasure you physically, it had all come to nothing.

After everything, he'd still managed to hurt you.

He had felt self-hatred before, but now as he looks at himself in the mirror, it becomes more potent than it's ever been. The self-loathing deepens in its intensity and feeds into the rage in his gut. It consumes his body until he starts to tremble, he grinds his teeth together, trying to stop himself from ripping apart.

Ivar throws himself forward, headbutting the mirror with his forehead. He pulls back, the mirror is cracked but he can still see most of his face, so he throws himself forward again. He barely registers the pain, through the anger, through the fucking agony inside of him. When he leans back this time, the mirror isn't damaged enough, he can still make out his reflection. He lets out a cry of pure rage and despair before headbutting the mirror again and again. Blood starts to pour down his face, but it's not enough, it won't ever be enough. He throws himself forward with all the strength he has left and impacts the mirror with such force that he blacks out before his body falls to the floor.

\- - -

Ivar tried to do it in person, tell you face to face, but he just couldn't do it. Each time he'd look into your eyes, he couldn't bare the thought of filling them with hurt. But it had to be done. So he ends your relationship over the phone. He wondered how few people had the experience of breaking their own heart. Somehow it was worse, self-inflicting the damage rather than someone else doing it.

Ivar was the master of his own destruction, of his own suffering, and no one hated him more than he hated himself.

He didn't deserve you. He couldn't trust himself around you.

When he saw you again for the first time after he had ended things, he was so close to begging for your forgiveness and asking whether you could be together again. He had brought your stuff back, it couldn't wait any longer, he had to give it all back, he had to cut the ties between you, as cleanly as possible. It would be easier that way. You opened up the door, looking as if you'd just gotten out of bed. You never slept this late, you looked so tired and you were. . .wearing his shirt.

He can't help but stare at it. His mind was trying to process why you would even wear it. Don't you hate him? Don't you despise him for how he broke up with you? Maybe he should have done it differently, made you truly hate him so that it would be easier for you to move on. Maybe he shouldn't have done this in the first place. Why the fuck would he break up with you? He was so content being with you, so grateful for your friendship and your partnership, he was happier than he's been in a long time.

But he knew exactly why he broke up with you.

Weeks before he had ended the relationship, he was becoming unstable again. Horrible urges started to grow inside of him, sick fantasies that demanded more from you, greater submission, heightened pain. He dreamt about it constantly, your blood on his skin, your screams that had became his ecstasy, your eyes filled with fear, such intoxicating fear. He woke up hard, filled with a crazed sort of lust that left him shaken. It became difficult to look at you with those urges inside of him.

The need to control was diminishing the little trust he had in himself. He wouldn't allow himself to hurt you like that, so he stopped initiating any play sessions with you. But the dreams didn't stop, if anything they got worse. The dreams were so real and so vivid that he was starting to confuse them with memories. He became anxious around you, he didn't trust himself not to go too far. Ivar knew he had to end things, your safety was paramount.

When you asked him into your place to collect his things, he refused. He couldn't be in your presence any longer. Ivar moved as quickly as his legs allowed him, and he slumped himself against the wall of the elevator, telling himself that he couldn't see you anymore.

A few weeks passed and he thought he could hold himself together when he saw you again. Ubbe had told him that you're coming to his birthday night out, well it was more a warning if anything. A warning to not fuck up, to understand that you are Ubbe's friend, and that you are friends with his brothers. Ivar's lip twitched at the memory of telling Ubbe he had broken up with you. He was so angry, shouting at Ivar why he'd fuck up such a good thing, demanding why he had broken up with you.

It wasn't as if he could admit the truth. He didn't want to be sectioned again.

Ubbe had barely spoken to Ivar until a few days before his birthday, the rest of his brothers had followed Ubbe's lead. It was only his mother that hadn't drawn herself away, but he could still see the disappointment in her eyes.

His legs were getting worse. Ever since he'd broken things off with you, the pain had engorged itself, as if feeding on his emotional suffering. The days were becoming easier to register but harder to tolerate, the initial blur of emotional exhaustion and emptiness had replaced itself with days that seemed to stretch out six hours too long. Medication worked only sometimes, sleep was harder to come by, the pain was becoming a constant distraction, he was no longer utterly preoccupied with you in his mind. The dreams had lessened in their intensity and their frequency. In that he thought he was making progress.

But it all faded away when you sat down next to him in the booth.

He thought he had prepared himself, but he had only considered that you would be in his presence, not right next to him, barely a breath away. You looked. . .the same. As tired and dejected like the last time he saw you. Why did you sit next to him? Why weren't you better? Why hadn't you moved on? His chest filled with such anguish and resentment that he wanted to push you away. His legs were causing him much more pain than usual, it only exacerbated his emotions.

It took far too long for him to come to his senses. To realise that you hadn't sat next to him on purpose, of course it was Ubbe, trying to prop you two together. You even started talking to him, making pleasant albeit awkward conversation, even after he'd been rude by staring at you. He tried his best to be as civil as possible.

It made him so sad, how he had reduced the conversation between you to mere civil pleasantries. The pain was quick to cut through his bitterness and he shrank back in his seat, barely involving himself with the discussions around him. All he could do was steal glances in your direction.

He watched you drink. . .and drink, he had to bite his lip to prevent himself from telling you to slow down. When a smile broke across your expression, it seemed to lighten something inside of him. He forced himself to turn away, soon becoming utterly preoccupied with his pain. It was funny how most people could glance at him and not notice he was in excruciating pain. Most people did not include you.

When your hand grabbed onto his thigh under the table, he had frozen, unable to process what you were doing to him. Of course you noticed, you always did. You saw right through him, through the layers of walls he had built over the years to protect himself. You had sauntered your way through them all with not even an ounce of effort to show for it.

His eyes started to brim with tears as your fingers massaged his muscles. It was always so easy for you to relieve his pain. He couldn't allow you to continue. He had to cut things off, end the relationship which he had cherished too much. He had to protect you. He lets his anger peak to the surface as he chastises you and grabs onto your wrist. Maybe if you hated him, this would be easier. You had to let him go.

He regretted it the moment he released you. A few minutes later you were gone. Ivar clenched his fist and punched his leg, feeling the pain blister over him as retaliation for what he did to you. He couldn't fucking control himself around you. And now he had made you leave, made you uncomfortable when you had just started to enjoy yourself. You'd gone home. . .fuck. . . drunk and alone.

He punched himself again.

\- - -

When he heard someone slamming their hand against his front door, he assumed it was one of his brothers. But he opened the door to find you falling backwards into his apartment, hitting your head against the floor. You were drunk. Out of your mind drunk, you had even thought this was your place.

What were you doing to yourself?

You started sobbing, telling him he hadn't explained why he'd broken up with you. The words were spoken with such anguish, he could feel the emotion coiling up inside him, ready to obliterate him. But you needed help, he needed to get you inside where he knew you were safe. He shut his emotions away, uttering nothing but demands to you.

Ivar knew that his excursions would cost him. He knew he would be in pain the next day. There was something oddly reassuring that the pain he caused himself was to protect you. It made it acceptable in his mind. Admirable even.

As you laid on the rug in front of the sofa, he tried to make you comfortable. A pillow, a blanket, it would do for now, but he would lift you up onto the sofa when you had fallen asleep. He felt guilty that he couldn't carry you to his bed, he knew you found it comfortable, more so than your own. Awkwardly, and after a moment of his muscles seizing up, he managed to lay down beside you on the floor.

When your body rests against his own, it was like the world had eased around him. The pain hadn't magically vanished, but it had tempered itself into something less agonising. His chest felt lighter. The debilitating void had weighed so heavily against him, but it seemed to lift itself, untangle itself from his heart. Those horrible dreams didn't even cross his mind.

You latched onto him, sobbing loudly, head tucked under his chin, getting his shirt wet with snot and tears. He didn't think you would be this bad. It wasn't like you to get that drunk, end up at the wrong apartment. He had to reconsider his decision. All of this was to protect you. . .but if you were in this much pain. . .

After you had fallen asleep, he managed to lift you up onto the sofa. He slept on the floor beside you, convincing himself that he wasn't able to get himself back to his bedroom, not that he wanted to be within arms reach of you.

He knew you would regret coming to his apartment in the morning when you woke, so he left early.

The next week was spent in utter turmoil. He barely slept, he couldn't stop thinking about you. He never wanted you to suffer or be in pain. If him being away from you was too much, maybe he could be with you. Ivar got angry with himself, the whole reason he did this was to protect you from him, going back to you wouldn't help anything. You needed to move on by yourself. And yet, how many weeks had it been? You don't turn up wasted on your ex's door if you'd gotten over them. It was so unlike you, you never lost control like that, he couldn't allow that to happen. He had to do something.

He had to fucking do something.

He found himself making his way to your apartment in the pouring rain, the sky was dark, illuminated only by lightning which was becoming more and more frequent. Perhaps it was a bad omen, the old gods warning him to stay away. But he didn't care. When he set his mind on something, nothing got in his way.

Ivar wants you so much. He needs you, he needs your touch, he needs your body against him again. It had to be different than before, he couldn't take control, he'd lose himself. Maybe if he didn't, then the urges wouldn't be as strong as they once were. Then maybe he could actually do this, he could. . .he could be with you.

When you open the door, he watched you helplessly. Ivar was motionless for several moments, fearful of rejection, desperate to care for you, to take away your pain. After he kissed you, he forced himself to wait and give you ample opportunity to stop him. But you don't. He kissed you again and again, wanting to give you nothing but pleasure.

You both ended up on the floor and he held onto both sides of your face, whispering apologies to you. He meant it. He never wanted to hurt you. He only wanted you to be happy. Ivar had thought that being without him would make you happy. He didn't understand why you hadn't moved on. But he knew he had to help you, he had to do something, and maybe this was it. After making you come again, he wrapped his arms around you and soon he drifted off into sleep.

When he woke, he didn't remember what he dreamt about, only that there was a bad feeling in his gut. It sent him into a panic, so he left as fast as he could, falling halfway down the corridor in the process. He called a taxi to take him home, knowing he wouldn't be able to make it home in the state his legs were in. He didn't ring any of his brothers, he couldn't bear their disapproval.

It took several days for his legs to recover, and it took a week to convince himself to return to you. He should have texted you back, but all he can do is stare at the words and avoid the need to throw his phone against the wall. The dreams didn't return, but that feeling he had when he woke up beside you had shaken him. When he felt strong enough, and when he had built some trust with himself, he knocked on your door again.

He thought you would turn him away after he didn't reply. He thought you would demand answers, an explanation at the very least, but you simply opened the door for him. You took him in without hesitation. You always did. He adorned you with care and admiration, with every bit of love he could express.

And he couldn't stop himself. You always let him in, so he didn't stop seeing you. The pain in his legs overshadowed the fear of those sick fantasies that had plagued him for so long. Every time he saw you, he never took control, or inflicted pain, he never wanted to even breach that part of him, so he steered clear. He had thought. . .for weeks. . .that it was working. That those nightmares were gone, that he didn't need to worry about hurting you anymore.

But the way you shook afterwards. . .

Everything had fallen apart. He barely registers the pain. He can still make out his reflection. 

Blood starts to pour down his face. But it's not enough.

It won't ever fucking be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I think that this is the final chapter of the story. I thought I would finish with Ivar's side of the story so that you can understand him better. 
> 
> I wanted to explore what Ivar would be like in our time, and I wanted to be true to his character as much as possible, taking his rage and his sadism with him. I think that he would be better in some ways, but not in others. There's something tragic about Ivar.
> 
> He is a really interesting character because he has such failings, but he also has greatness in him as well. He tries to take on the whole fucking world and he's so angry with it. He has so much rage inside of him, but I think deep down, he really does try.


End file.
